


Fragments

by Glowbug



Series: Hidden Puzzles [4]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Depression, Emmy had a really depressing childhood apparently, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, a little of everything, canon character death, mishmosh, mood whiplash if you read it all at once!, puzzle dorks, puzzle siblings, unmarked spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/pseuds/Glowbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our favorite puzzlers struggle to rebuild shattered lives and dreams. A series of one-shots in no particular order. Past Hershel/Claire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel, ten years before the original trilogy.

He does not speak at the funeral.

In fact, for several weeks he barely speaks at all.

He spends most of his time in his new, empty office, staring out the window. Every inch of their tiny flat— _his_  tiny flat, now—reminds him of her, from the saucepans in the kitchen to the calculus text on the nightstand to the puzzle pieces on the wallpaper. It takes him less than a week to purchase a battered old settee and start sleeping at Gressenheller.

The cleaning lady finds him there on the tenth morning, with bags under his eyes and a slightly wrinkled jacket for a blanket. (The new hat remains on his head; he finds he can hardly bear to take it off.) He is tempted to send her away, but he lacks the energy; besides,  _she_  would have told him that a gentleman is always polite to a lady—always. So when Rosa (as her name is) shakes out the jacket, chides him gently for wrinkling it, tidies his stack of newspapers and makes him a cup of incomparable loose-leaf tea, Hershel thanks her. To his surprise, the sincerity of his gratitude goes far beyond mere politeness.

The scene repeats the next morning, and the next. Though Hershel surmises the dean has filled her in on the situation, Rosa never once mentions the explosion or asks him about Claire. Instead, she gossips about ordinary, everyday things; her children, the weather, the mischief those young rascals from paleontology have gotten into this week. She occasionally asks him for small favors as she tidies up (“Be a dear and fill the kettle, won’t you?”), and so he finds himself learning, then taking over, the brewing of the tea. On the day he surprises her with a perfectly-brewed pot upon her arrival, she chuckles, straightens his tie, and tells him he’s the sweetest duck of a professor she’s ever met.

For the first time in weeks, Hershel Layton finds himself smiling.


	2. Cocooning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmy, shortly after Unwound Future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the updated description! I'm certain there will be more Hershel/Claire angst as the mood takes me, but have some depressed Emmy in the meantime. We may end up with Luke angst at some point too… this series is so horrible to its characters :)

The shack was a cradle and a refuge. The walls groaned, the roof leaked, the insulation was nonexistent, but it was a place to go. The door had a lock, and god knows no one else wanted the place. I bought a cheap space heater and wore layers upon layers of sweaters. It's not hard to get sweaters. Not in Peru.

I didn't bother reading the papers for a few months; after what had happened in London I wasn't sure I wanted to know what the outside world was up to. It rather put a damper on my income; I wasn't reporting, had to rely on winter landscapes and it's damned hard to take good photos when you feel like hiding under the covers all day long. My meager rent and minuscule appetite were boons, of a sort.

I should have gone home; I know now that I could have. But you have to see, my world had just fallen apart, _again_. I didn't trust anyone. Except them, and I'd already hurt them enough… I didn't want them near me. I felt toxic.

So I hunkered down. I stayed put, in a tiny, creaking building that somehow avoided falling on my head. If it had, I doubt I'd have cared. I barely talked to anyone that whole winter. The whole world seemed dimmer, foggier. My clearest memory is of being exhausted, no matter how much I slept.

When spring came, I emerged from the shack like a deformed butterfly from her cocoon, and moved on as best I could.


	3. Fais Do Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hershel, between chapters 3 and 4 of Last Specter (after they have chased the specter and returned to the hotel).

His fitful slumber is shattered by a scream.

“Mum! Mum, Mummy, _Mum!”_

Hershel Layton sits up with a gasp, seizing the brim of his hat. Nearby, someone leaps out of one bed and scrambles to another. What on earth—?

“Luke, what is it?” The voice is gentle, lacking a brashness he’s already come to expect. Hershel blinks. That’s right—the letter, the specter, the attack on the hotel. Clark’s young son, now sobbing in the bed across the room…

“Shh, it’s all right.” Miss Altava—no, Emmy—has claimed a spot at little Luke’s side. She must have been awakened by the scream, too; the covers on her own bed are flung back haphazardly. “You’re safe,” she murmurs. “We’re right here… you’re safe.”

“It was—the specter—it was coming—I want my mum!” Luke wails.

“I know, sprout. I know. Shh…” Emmy cradles the boy in her arms, stroking his hair.

“ ‘m _not_ a sprout,” Luke protests between sniffles, but he buries his face in Emmy’s shoulder.

Hershel stifles a yawn. Before he can offer assistance, Emmy looks up and meets his eyes. “Nightmare,” she says softly. “I’ve got him, Professor. Go back to sleep.”

The set of his new assistant’s chin brooks no argument. Hershel simply nods. He slides down in the hotel armchair, closing his eyes. Clearly, he will need to remain in Misthallery until the specter—whatever it may be—is dealt with. Tomorrow, then, will call for a great deal of investigation, and that demands a fresh mind.

A soft crooning fills the room, and Luke’s sobs start to quiet. After a moment, Hershel realizes Emmy is singing.

_Go to sleep, my baby brother,_

_Go to sleep, my little hero._

_Mama bakes the bread, she mixes the dough,_

_Baby goes to sleep for to sleep he must go…_

A traditional lullaby, but one he has only heard sung in French. Where could she have learned this variation?

The song lulls him to sleep before he can ponder the question.

In the morning, Luke teases Emmy for being tired with a genuine smile on his face. She hushes him with a groan, but one corner of her mouth quirks upward as she reaches for her boots.

Hershel decides not to ask her about the lullaby.


	4. Hints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The puzzle team, Layton's office. Sometime during the prequel trilogy.

"Oh, and the third hint is also trivia." Emmy settled down on the couch next to Luke.

The "number-one apprentice," presently number-one  _stumped_ apprentice, looked up from the puzzle in alarm. "But…!"

"Your choice whether you believe me, kiddo." Emmy put on her best "I know something you don't know" grin.

Luke scowled and continued to pore over the puzzle. Emmy waited. After several minutes, he reluctantly passed her a third hint coin.

"Okay…" Her smile widened.

Luke broke the seal on the card she gave him and unfolded it. "……………… EMMY!"

"I did tell you!"

Luke scooped up the puzzle and hint cards and marched over to Professor Layton, who was working at his desk. "Professor, look at these! Just look at them!"

The professor glanced at the puzzle, then read through the so-called "hints." He glanced her way, raising an eyebrow. Emmy hid a giggle behind her hand.

"Interesting. Luke, you might try…" He whispered something in the boy's ear.

Luke went back to the puzzle with renewed determination. What had the professor told him? The man himself pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began scribbling furiously.

"Professor, what are you doing…?"

"A lady never breaks a gentleman's concentration, Emmy." Layton continued scribbling.

"Uh, right." She shifted her weight on the couch. Somehow, this didn't bode well…

"Ah. There you are, Emmy." Professor Layton handed her the sheet, which contained a puzzle… the likes of which she had never seen before in her life. Making a face, she dug in her pocket and handed him three hint coins in exchange for three cards.

  1. _The answer may not be obvious at first…_  
  
"…"  
  

  2. _It will be much more fun to figure this puzzle out for yourself…_  
  
"You're joking," she muttered. Bugger it. She put the cards aside and began to study the puzzle. Ten minutes later, she sighed and cracked open the last hint.  
  

  3. _Sorry, there are no further hints. An interesting fact about the history of this puzzle is that…  
  
_



"PROFESSOR!" Emmy complained.

Luke looked up, taking in Emmy's dismay and Layton's small smile. "Oh!" He leaped up, throwing his arms around the professor. "Thank you, Professor! Thank you thank you thank you!" Emmy balled up a hint card and chucked it at him. "Hey!" Luke yelled.

Professor Layton chuckled. "Perhaps it's time we break for some tea."


	5. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmy, about a dozen years before Last Specter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this snippet as a flashback while working on Kintsukuroi, my longfic about Emmy. Unfortunately the chapter I was working on proved to have no good place for it, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to reuse it elsewhere. I like it as a little window into Emmy's childhood, though, so here it is!

“Emmeline, if you let your eyes dart all over the place like that, you’ll blow your cover before you even open your mouth.”

“I thought you said lying was bad, Uncle. I don’t like this. I want to read with you some more.”

He sighed and lifted me up on his knee. “You need to be ready when you’re old enough to go on a mission, my star. That means we have to practice this. You want to help Targent, don’t you?”

I nodded, and snuggled into his shoulder. “But why do I have to pretend I’m not Targent if I am?”

“Because there are all sorts of bad people out there trying to stop us. Not everyone understands the importance of what we do.” He set me down. “It’s safer this way. For _everyone_. Now try again.”

“I’m tired.”

“Stop sulking, Emmeline, and try again.”


	6. Corkscrews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmy, fifteen years before Azran Legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a lot about what life must have been like for little!Emmy. (Unexpectedly angsty, as it turns out.)
> 
> The writing style for this chapter was inspired by that of the lovely [dirgewithoutmusic](archiveofourown.org/users/dirgewithoutmusic/works) (or [ink-splotch](http://ink-splotch.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, which is where I discovered them). Definitely go check them out; they're awesome.

Imagine ten-year-old Emmy Altava.

She’s been wearing her hair in pigtails since reading _Pippi Longstocking_ , but it’s only just gotten long enough to braid. Bronev encourages the misconception that Grouse’s wife has been helping out on more than an archeological level, though in truth he’s not about to distract the brightest mind on his team (though he dares not acknowledge _that_ , either) and has, with gritted teeth, been braiding Emmeline’s hair himself. In another year he will talk her into cutting it short; more practical, he will say, since she’ll be going into full training soon. But for now he deigns to tease her curls into obedience.

She’s beginning to notice that he locks her in her room at night and the knowledge irks her. Uncle Leon’s always going out at night; she can hear his footsteps, in and out of their new quarters. Why can’t she go, too?

She misses the building they lived in before he got promoted. Here, way at the top of the Nest in every possible sense, she’s beginning to feel like Rapunzel in the tower. She’s big enough now to cook dinner by herself, but it’s no fun when she keeps having to shove his half of it in the fridge. Sometimes he eats it when he comes back at night; sometimes it starts to smell funny and she throws it in the rubbish bin.

He’s told her not to wander around alone but she sneaks out sometimes, during the day, when he hasn’t locked all the doors. She starts climbing on rooftops to avoid being spotted. She plays pranks on the lower officers; moving keys, tipping coffee cups over on papers, one time pilfering a set of lock picks and, later, trying them out on her own door. She stops only when she realizes that, no matter how long she is gone, her uncle doesn’t seem to notice her absence.

Then she starts walking the streets openly, throwing snowballs at the recruits who sneer as she passes. She is generally rewarded with several bruises, then delivered home in a sulking heap. Well, Uncle Leon notices _that_.

She has yet to be deemed ready for recruit training; instead, Bronev starts to train her himself. (“If you’re determined to seek out trouble, Emmeline, you ought to be able to deal with it.”) She’s been learning martial arts since she was five but he starts in on rougher, dirtier tactics now. There are other lessons too: codes, cover stories. She memorizes the fake names and histories but stumbles when it’s time to spit them out on cue. She has never been a good liar, she never will be, and they both know it.

He drills her anyway, and she tries. And if, once in a while, Emmeline practices under her breath until she can claim (with a mostly-straight face) that she's been studying Azran runes instead of reading the Agatha Christie novel she “borrowed” from Mr. Swift’s office, well, she won’t get shouted down unless he guesses. Until he guesses.

Fifteen years later, Emmy will look at herself in a dingy hotel room mirror and reach for the scissors. “Long hair’s just not practical,” she’ll tell her new coworkers, and she won’t know whether to remember or forget.


	7. Squire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a Constantine drabble. Just… because, really.

I, Constantine, have directed Sir Top Hat and The Squire Who Speaks All Tongues to the kennel of the smelly-ink man called the Storyteller. Now I, Constantine, will return faithfully to my master’s side!

I have traveled far, and when I arrive at the cages of men I am most pawsore. Alas, no tankard of cool water nor a trencher of meat awaits me. Nevertheless I wag my tail at the guards, and having awed them with my chivalry, slip into the depths of the dungeon a few bread crusts fuller for my trouble.

I, Constantine, am a dexterous dog. It is no trouble to wriggle between the bars of the cage that holds my master and leap up into his lap.

“Good e’en, little squire,” he says.

“Master!” I yip.

Master pats my head. “I regret that I have no dinner for so bold and loyal a companion.”

Though my belly growls, I care not, but only lick my master’s hand. To be in his presence is food and drink to me. Never will I desert him.


	8. Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmy gets into trouble. About ten years before Last Specter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Emmy flashback that may not make it into my longfic, but is there in the backstory nevertheless. She's twelve here… I guess writers really do torture their characters. I'm sorry, Emmy :(

"Azran crystal, Emmeline." Uncle Leon held up a tiny shard of the artifact I had just broken. "It gathers and transmits light, and transforms it in ways we are not yet privileged to understand. One piece”— _crack!_ —“is worth more than _ten thousand_ careless little girls."

The crystal chip was still in his hand, one edge stained red. No bigger than a penny. Glittering.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked.

"I'm sorry." I clutched at the leg of my scratchy uniform. ”They were chasing me, and I—”

_Crack_. Another line scored across my cheek.

"I said, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"N-Nothing, Uncle Leon.” My eyes were blurring. “I’m sorry,” I whispered again.

“Pah. It’s done. I have repairs to make.” He turned away. ”Stop sniveling, girl. You're dismissed."

“Don’t send me away, Uncle! Please—”

_"Dismissed!"_

I ran from the room.

I washed my face in the bathroom, patched up the cuts with butterfly strips and silver cream. Uncle Leon kept me inside until they healed. You can't see where they were anymore, unless you know to look.

He'd never hit me before. He never would again, except once.

I see those scars every time I look in the mirror, reminding me I can't afford to fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …I just realized how perfectly this mirrors [Busted.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9528122)


	9. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronev and Emmy, probably a few months after Emmy's first encounter with Layton.

“It will be perfectly _annoying_ to find you a new school, Emmeline.”

The girl glances up at him, shamefaced. “‘m sorry, Uncle Leon.”

“Speak up,” he snaps automatically. “Bother those ‘sisters.’ Calling me in for such an utter waste of time!”

They turn the corner. Emmeline fidgets with her book bag as St. Agatha’s School fades into the mist.

“But I don’t have to go back there?” she asks after a moment.

He sighs. “Given that you’re on the verge of being expelled anyway—“

Emmeline turns bright red.

“—but also that your headmasters feel that kissing a girl in the hall is somehow a more heinous offense than the _prodigious_ number of fights you’ve gotten yourself into—“

Her mouth drops open; she covers it quickly with her hand. (A dozen years, and he _still_ can’t break her of wearing her bloody heart on her sleeve. Well, never mind that now.)

“—No,” he finishes. “I brought you to London so you would learn to blend in, not to have you educated by small-minded _dullards.”_

To his embarrassment, Emmeline _squeaks_ and throws her arms around him. _“Thank you,”_ she says in his ear.

“All right, all right, there’s no need to be sentimental about it.” He extricates himself from the hug (and if he smiles for a moment, he doesn’t let her see). “Emmeline, look at me.”

She snaps to attention, though a ghost of a smile remains on her lips.

“I give not two figs whom your eyes land on,” he informs her, “male _or_ female, so long as you do not allow them to distract you from our greater goals. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Uncle Leon.”

“I do not recommend falling in love.” He turns his eyes forward. “It can be”— _(don’t think of Rachel)_ —“uncommonly messy. Don’t be fool enough to give someone that weakness to exploit.”

“Y-Yes, Uncle Leon.” A shred of doubt? But she always comes around in the end.

“I’ve done you a disservice, I think,” he says.

“Uncle?”

“You’re getting older, Emmeline, and there are a number of… associated facts that I’ve neglected to discuss with you. First of all…”

By the time they return to the base, his niece is crimson from head to toe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so after that last one-shot I just had to write something a little happier, and this is a moment that's been in the back of my head for a while. (I still hate Bronev, mind you. But even he can't be horrible every minute of every day.)
> 
> Yes, Bronev totally gave Emmy the sex talk. :D For the curious, I headcanon her as bisexual or biromantic ace, I'm still not sure which. And yes, Bronev's telling the truth when he says that he doesn't care. He just doesn't want her to get attached, romantically or otherwise.
> 
> …because someone's bound to ask, I think she probably had a teenage crush on Layton, but I don't ship them. I'd rather write found-family stuff anyway.


	10. Shutterbug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Emmy got her camera. Roughly fourteen years before Last Specter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo me and [TheMockingJ3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMockingJ3/pseuds/TheMockingJ3) were chatting in the comments on the previous chapter and I started thinking about what Bronev's flashback could have been like in AL if they had used it to show more of his relationship with little!Emmy, and how they could easily have done that and still suggested how Rachel's death affected Bronev, and then a few other headcanons clicked into place and I stayed up till 4 AM writing this. Woo!

The door of Bronev’s study bangs open, scattering his papers. “Uncle Leon! Say cheese!”

He scowls. _Click._

“Uncle, you have to say ‘cheese’!” His eight-year-old niece/ward/constant irritation frowns at the disposable camera. “Now I’m out of film again.”

 _“Emmeline._ How many times have I told you _not to interrupt me while I’m working?”_

Emmeline droops. Bronev tries to ignore a sudden pang of guilt.

“I forgot, Uncle Leon,” she mumbles. “I wanted to take your picture.”

“You are _supposed_ to be at your studies, and you’ve taken my picture already.” Numerous times, in fact.

She nods. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to remember.”

“Try _harder.”_ He glances at his now-scrambled notes. “But since you’re already here, hand that thing over and sit down. There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

She sets the camera on his desk, hoisting herself into the too-tall extra chair. Bronev stands to retrieve a small box from his shelves. “You’re ready for this now. I’m expecting you to take good care of it.”

Emmeline rips the box open. _“Oh!”_ Face shining like a candle, she lifts out a vintage SLR.

“That belonged to your aunt Rachel,” he says, careful not to let his voice shake on Rachel’s name. “Your namesake. She was a professional photographer.”

“Wow! Really?”

“Mmm.” He motions for her to turn the camera over; she runs a finger over the _R.E. Altava_ scratched into the bottom. “Before she died… when we used to go on expeditions together, she would document every step of our progress. She’d say we were on the verge of great discoveries.”

“Like the one about the Azran?”

“That _very_ one. I’ve devoted myself to finding it, to seeing her dream fulfilled.”

Emmeline peers through the viewfinder. “Can I help?”

“Emmeline, my star. What do you think I’ve been teaching you for?”

She breaks into a gap-toothed grin.

“You are _invaluable_ to our cause,” he says as she lowers the camera. “If you’re willing to work as hard as I do, that is.”

Emmeline nods enthusiastically.

“Good.” He returns the smile. “Then consider this your first training mission: familiarize yourself with that camera, and _do your blasted schoolwork!”_

She has the sense to look sheepish. “Okay, Uncle Leon. I’ll go do it now.”

“That’s my girl. Now shoo. I want to finish this before your karate lesson.”

Emmeline hops up. She pauses in the doorway.

“Uncle Leon? Would Aunt Rachel have liked me?”

He looks at her: curls sticking out in every direction, camera cradled in her arms like a teddy bear.

“She would have _loved_ you, Emmeline.”


	11. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel, sometime after the events of Layton's Mystery Journey.

The Laytonmobile’s engine sputtered. Hershel patted the dashboard as it climbed over the hill. Months of travel and clandestine investigation had taken their toll, on him as well as his beloved automobile.

Not much further.

He parked on a side street a few blocks away, lest the car attract attention. The house was quiet and dark; his family was probably asleep.

 _Sleeping and safe. Please._  He shouldn’t have come back—danger stalked him everywhere, these days—but he was so very, very tired.

He unlocked the door. The first thing he heard was the cuckoo clock Luke had picked out for their living room, calling the quarter hour. Nearly midnight. Hershel added his loafers to the line of shoes by the door (neatly polished mary-janes and brogues and a remarkably dirty set of combat boots) and started for the stairs. He would worry about explaining his presence in the morning…

 _“MREOW!”_  His foot touched something soft that exploded from beneath it and tore up the stairs. Hershel stumbled, bumping into the sofa. He hadn’t even seen Flora’s cat.

A light came on at the top of the stairs, followed by running footsteps and a dark silhouette raising a frying pan. “Who are you, what’re you doing in here, and what d’you—”

The figure froze.

_“Papa?!”_

Cast iron clattered to the floor, and his elder daughter all but flew to throw her arms around him.

Months of unease melted away. “Flora… my dear…”

“We were so worried,” Flora sobbed.

Second and third silhouettes materialized at the top of the stairs, unarmed with cookware this time. But Emmy had never needed a weapon to fend off intruders, and Katrielle had learned from the best.

_“Daddy!”_

“Professor!”

Hershel’s knees went weak, but it hardly mattered with a three-way hug holding him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And then they make him tea and Kat calls Alfendi to come over  _right now_  cuz he got his own flat when he joined the yard and Emmy rings Luke in the middle of the night and Al rushes over and Luke starts crying when he talks to the professor on the speakerphone, and they all pile on the couch and fall asleep, and in the morning Luke rushes over there first thing and Lucy probably shows up at some point and they all talk Layton into letting them help with his case. And they all lived happily ever after.)


	12. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain puzzle OTP gets introduced by their respective roommates/best friends… (What? A happy chapter? GASP!) Set at least fifteen years before Unwound Future.

"Look, I think Clark's trying to get you a dance."

"Who said I wanted to dance?" But I follow my best friend's pointing finger anyway. Across the room, her boyfriend catches us looking. He grins broadly and nudges the fellow next to him, who catches my eye just long enough to turn a vivid shade of pink. He tugs at the edge of his cap and turns his gaze to his shoes. "Brenda," I say, "I don't think the poor chap even wants to be here."

"Oh, don't mind Hershel. He's shy. He'd stay in his room all day if we'd let him. But you’ll like him, Claire. I've been meaning to introduce you. He's absolutely cracking at puzzles."

I try to sound bored. "Is he really?"

Brenda giggles. "Aha, don't think I didn't see your eyes light up!"

Now it's me turning pink. I push my glasses further up my nose.

"You two would be so perfect together," Brenda gushes. "It's like a match made in heaven!"

"Give over, I haven't even talked to him yet!"

"Well! Let's fix that, shall we?" She gives me a conspiratorial wink.

"Brenda..."

"Aw, Claire, don't you _want_ to dance with him?"

I take another look; Clark throws up his hands in despair and goes to pour himself a glass of punch, while his now-scarlet comrade draws back against the wall. I catch his eye again. He smiles, just slightly, and touches the edge of his cap.

"Perhaps I do," I find myself saying.

Brenda grabs my arm. "Then let's go!"

I laugh, and let her drag me off.

* * *

"Claire, Hershel Layton. Hershel, Claire Foley. She's my best friend," Brenda adds in an undertone, "so be nice to her! Now, Clark!" she calls out. "Aren't you going to lead me a dance?"

"Sorry," Clark mouths over his shoulder as Brenda sweeps him out onto the floor. I'm not sure whether he means the apology for me, or for Hershel Layton. Either way, I'll be giving Brenda an earful later. She practically threw us at each other—what an introduction!

Well, that's all one. I turn my attention to the young man in the red cap. "A pleasure to meet you, Hershel Layton."

“L-Likewise, Miss Foley."

I giggle. It tickles to be called "Miss Foley" by someone my own age. “Please, it’s just Claire.”

“Of course. M-Miss Claire.”

There’s a very long silence, though he _does_ keep sneaking glances at me from the corner of his eye.

“Brenda says you’re one for puzzles…?”

His eyes light up. “Oh, yes! I’ve been working up a new one all day, in fact—er…”

“You made one up?”

Hershel nods.

“Cracking! Let’s hear it!”

He flushes scarlet, biting his lip.

“I’ll tell you one of mine in exchange, if you’d like.” Clark and Brenda always seem to enjoy my puzzles, but in the way you enjoy the cinema. What _truly_ lights them up is whirling around the dance floor or debating the finer points of convergent evolution. (Right now, knowing the two of them, it’s probably both.)

It’s the right thing to say; Hershel Layton smiles, and the corner of his eyes crinkle slightly. “It would be my honor, Claire.”


	13. Bicycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke makes a discovery and decides to do something about it. Emmy and Luke, somewhere in the midst of the prequel trilogy.

"You don't know how to ride a bicycle?"

"Just... eat your food, Luke."

"But Emmy! How do _you_ not know how to ride a bicycle?!"

"Luke..."

He looked up at her with wide puppy eyes that didn't even twitch toward his sandwich. She sighed.

"Look, I lived in... not a safe neighborhood, when I was little. I never had a bike. No one _rode_ bikes there." She turned away, popping the lid off a tin. "I don't know, I just never learned."

Silence, then quiet munching noises. Emmy set the kettle on the hot plate and concentrated on spooning out tea.

"Want me to teach you?"

She nearly dropped the spoon. "What?"

"I could teach you," Luke said earnestly. "I'm a _really_ good bike rider. I can even do wheelies! Except, um, don't tell Mum and Dad about that."

Half a spoonful of peppercherry quivered above the infuser. "I... I'm an adult, Luke. I've got my, uh, my scooter, and I'm too old for..."

" 'A true gentleman never declares it too late to learn something new,' " Luke said in his best Professor Layton voice.

Emmy laughed out loud, spilling the tea leaves. "It does sound fun."

"You'd love it! We can rent you a bike from that shop across from the library, and mine's at Mum and Dad's house, and then we just have to think of a good place for you to practice..."

What had she gotten herself into?


End file.
